A few days ago, before the sun was fully up, I spotted joy in the sky. It was a phenomenon I’d never seen before, and it inspired an astonished, “Ooooh …wow,” followed by a big grin.

“What, what?” asked Dear Richard thinking I was looking at him. A commercial jet’s contrail was slashing diagonally across the sky, visible through the window behind him. The hot pink streak was lit up, as if it were on fire. It was so stunning it took me a few seconds to determine what it was.

Contrails are the white streaks we see criss-crossing the sky on well-traveled air routes. The vapor trail is formed when the water droplets in the aircraft’s wake condense. Until that day, I’d only ever seen white ones.

Where we live, we are surrounded by hills. After daybreak it takes a half an hour for the sun to crest the hilltops. The contrail I was looking at was lit from underneath by the still rising sun. The spectacular bright fuchsia streak lasted only a minute or two – like a rainbow. But it made my morning. And that was a good thing. It was yet another a bitter cold day.

There’s no use groaning to anyone about the temperature being only 4-above or 3-below because we all fall into one of two groups. We are either outdoors, trying to stay warm, or remaining indoors because of it. When I hear people complaining, I think, “It’s winter, we’re in snow country. What do you expect?” I guess we’ve been a bit spoiled by a few easier winters, but with COVID substituting for day-to-day conversation, I don’t think we talk about the weather as much as usual.

And the weather wimps? They have all gone to Florida. Perhaps they’re the smart ones.

I checked the Farmer’s Almanac for a peek at the rest of the month. The book describes the weather by geographical regions. In the northeast and mid-Atlantic states, our first few days of February are described as bitter with blustery winds. As I read through the forecast it all just sounded like a normal February except for the last four days prediction of a major storm bearing 2-feet of snow – but only for western Pennsylvania and western New York State!

Today, the snow is still stacked high on the ground, the sun is shining brightly and we’re having a heat wave – it’s 29 degrees. The iron patio table on the deck is sporting a 16-inch-high wedding cake lookalike. I am curious how much it will shrink by dusk after such bright sunshine. I just hope the daily melt is slow.

I’m anticipating that the rascally rodent from Punxsutawney will be looking for his shadow Wednesday. Frankly, I think Phil the groundhog is good for only one thing: tourism in Punxsutawney. Whether or not he sees his shadow is pretty much based on whether the sun is shining. Maybe I’m just an old curmudgeon-ette when it comes to furry faux forecasters.

I have finally determined that the only way to combat this colder-than-usual winter is to dress appropriately. I always poohpoohed the buttoned-up layers of warmth most sensible adults climb into in December. I reasoned I’m only running between the car and the house or the store and the car. Why do I need the polar gear of an Innuit?

But since my arthritis is incompatible with winter’s deep freeze, I now have acquired the all-purpose warm jacket. I bought some easy-on, easy-off fur-lined shoes for my tootsies, and I have stashed gloves everywhere.

My shoes are pre-toasted on the heat run in the front hall. And the car is preheated, including my over-the-top gadget: the heated steering wheel. I thought I’d gone to heaven the first time my arthritic hands wrapped around one of those warm, leather- padded wheels.

When I bought this car, that little frill was a gift from me to me – with love and devotion.

So now that I’m fully prepared to go out into this freezing blast – honestly, I’d rather just look at it. The view from the living room is of icicles and arctic splendor. The house is cozy and Dear Richard is a good shopper. What more could a girl want?

Well, maybe another hot pink streak across the sky just to remind us that winter or not, Mother Nature can still put on a good show. I’m embracing her stellar performance, warmly.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren with her husband, Richard, and Finian, their snooping Maine Coon cat. Marcy can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com